The Siege (9 page)

‘You do realise that I could run you and your fat friend through right now, take all your money and one of those fine horses you rode in on and disappear. Just like that.’ Strabo snapped his fingers.

Cassius was surprised by his words but sensed that they were meant as a test, not a genuine threat.

Simo came in from the bedroom. Strabo ignored him.

‘I do,’ said Cassius, trying not to swallow nervously, ‘but I don’t believe you will.’

Strabo moved forward again, his frame blocking out the light.

Cassius met his stare as it slowly softened into a playful grin.

‘You’re not as young in the head as you are in the face, centurion. I’ll give you that.’

Strabo headed for the door, then stopped mid-stride.

‘On second thoughts, it might be better if this stays with you and our arrangement remains . . . confidential.’

The bag of coins landed on the desk with a solid thud. Strabo pointed at Cassius.

‘I have your word I’ll receive it when the garrison is relieved? In addition to my pay?’

‘You have my word.’ Cassius nodded towards the square. ‘As long as you stand by me out there.’

‘I’ll do as you’ve asked. For now.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Strabo, grinning as he reached for the door, ‘sir.’

VII

The heat in the square was almost unbearable. As he came to a halt beneath the flagpole, Cassius tugged irritably at the straps of his helmet, then wiped his clammy hands against his tunic.

After the meeting with Strabo, Simo had tidied up the officers’ quarters and made some useful discoveries: a bronze tuba for sounding orders, a log book and the century roll. Cassius had been through every page of the roll: it listed names, wage levels and dates and places of birth. Petronius had been a conscientious officer; almost up to his death he had made notes in the log about supplies and work details. There was no mention of disciplinary infractions or punishments.

‘What do you think, sir? I thought it would be good for the lads to see this again.’

Barates arrived holding a tattered legion flag.

‘Excellent idea.’

The veteran, now wearing his belt and sword, unfurled the flag and knelt down in front of the pole.

Squinting through the glare and the sweat running down into his eyes, Cassius turned to face the assembled troops. Most had made some kind of effort and all now wore tunics, belts and swords. A few even sported metal insignia: decorations for honourable action. One group was making a show of ignoring Cassius completely. They included Flavian: the stocky legionary was still wielding his stave and looked rather unsteady on his feet.

Cassius was curious about what Strabo had said to them. The guard officer stood to his right, looking bored, apparently disinterested in taking the lead. Wondering if it was another one of his tests, Cassius decided to get things moving.

‘Guard officer.’

‘Sir?’

‘Get the men into close formation. Three lines.’

Strabo repeated the command, then yawned. The men organised themselves with surprising efficiency. Only Flavian and his cronies dragged their heels, successfully making a mess of the third line.

Cassius felt a tap on his shoulder. Barates pointed up at the flag, now hanging listlessly in the enervating heat. As with all legions raised by Caesar, the symbol of the Third Legion was a bull, in this case rendered in golden thread. Though the red of the standard had faded to a thin pink, the bull itself shone reassuringly bright.

‘Well done.’

Barates moved away but Cassius held up a hand. ‘Stay here would you, I may need your help.’

‘Of course.’

Barates put his hands behind his back and surveyed the men. Strabo was doing nothing to quieten the shuffling feet and whispered comments. Before beginning, Cassius reminded himself to consider his audience and simplify his language. As he had discovered during training, the military was not the place for the embroidered vernacular of the orator.

‘I am Centurion Cassius Quintius Corbulo and I am here on the direct orders of General Marcus Galenus Navio. I have been instructed to take charge of Alauran.’

Though the men were listening, Cassius sensed this was due more to curiosity than respect. There were more than a few quizzical looks at the unusually young officer before them.

Flavian was swaying and muttering to himself.

Cassius continued: ‘Now, I appreciate the difficulties you have faced over the last few months, but—’

Flavian stumbled forward into the second line. Some of the other legionaries cursed at him.

Cassius turned to Strabo.

‘Guard officer,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Deal with that man. He’s drunk.’

Flavian pushed his way through the first line.

‘Guard officer,’ Cassius repeated.

‘Sir?’ said Strabo flatly.

Flavian stomped forward, bloodshot eyes locked on Cassius. He smacked the stave noisily against his other hand.

‘Deal with him!’ Cassius shouted, resisting the temptation to turn and run. Flavian was no more than twenty feet away.

‘What exactly should I do, sir?’ asked Strabo, drawing laughs from some of the men.

‘What about your duty!’ snapped Barates.

Flavian charged on, a bestial grimace on his face.

‘Deal with him now!’ Cassius yelled. If it hadn’t been for the flash of movement to his right, he would have made his escape.

Strabo covered the distance with surprising speed and his well-timed trip caught Flavian perfectly. The legionary fell forward head first, cracking two tiles with his skull. The stave flew out of his hand and clattered to the ground at Cassius’ feet.

Barates squatted down and examined the legionary’s head. He was unconscious but still breathing.

‘There’ll be quite a lump, but he’ll be all right.’

‘What should we do with him?’ asked Strabo.

‘Put him in his bed,’ Cassius answered, loudly enough for the men to hear. ‘I’ve no use for a drunk.’

Strabo turned Flavian over and waved a couple of men forward to help him. One of Flavian’s cronies broke ranks, rounding the first and second lines.

‘Hands off, Strabo! We look after our own here.’

‘Get back in line, Avso,’ said Strabo, dropping Flavian’s prone form roughly to the ground. ‘This is none of your concern.’

‘And since when has taking charge been yours?’ countered the legionary angrily.

Avso was not a big man, but he looked wiry and tough. He was probably no more than thirty, but had a gaunt, almost cadaverous face and a head of lank, greasy hair. Cassius also noted his well-maintained weaponry and a livid pink scar that ran diagonally across his right shin.

Two of Avso’s supporters stepped up behind him while some of those in the first line exchanged glances with Strabo. There seemed to be a distinct possibility that Cassius’ first address was about to deteriorate into a brawl.

However, the guard officer took a breath. He glanced first at Cassius, then back at his would-be adversary.

‘Avso, I know you’re Thracian but try to keep up. We have a new centurion here and he’d like to finish his speech.’ Strabo nodded down at Flavian. ‘Take your friend, clean him up and get back here on the double.’

Avso hesitated for a moment, then beckoned the others forward. It took all three of them to carry Flavian off the square and into the barracks.

Cassius let the men settle down, composed himself, then continued.

‘As I was saying, I know you’ve had a difficult time out here – not knowing what’s going on beyond these walls and manning such a remote post without pay – and I’m not going to pretend that all is well with the war. The Palmyrans could strike here and we must be ready.’

Reading the apprehension in the eyes of those he addressed, Cassius moved on quickly.

‘But there is good news. A cavalry column is on its way: General Valens’ men. They should be here in four or five days. When they arrive you will receive all wages due. That’s straight from General Navio.’ As before, Cassius felt the lie was a risk worth taking. He had to do something to get the men on side and could always plead innocence or ignorance at a later time. ‘I have been sent here to ensure that the relieving forces find a well-organised, well-defended fort.’

A man in the second line raised his hand.

‘Yes, legionary.’

‘What will happen then, sir? Some of us have been out here almost two years. If we could at least get back to Antioch—’

‘Yes, of course. I must be honest on that point. I do not know how you will be re-deployed.’

‘If I may, sir,’ Strabo piped up. ‘Seems to me that if there are fresh centuries coming to reinforce the area, they won’t want a unit that can barely muster fifty. It might be that we’re back in the city before long.’

‘And how many times have we heard that before!’ came a loud retort. The man was standing in the second line and Cassius took a step left to get a better view. The legionary was of a good age, over forty certainly, with a thinning thatch of spiky grey hair and the battered face of a seasoned campaigner.

‘Serenus,’ whispered Barates. ‘Highly decorated but afflicted by illness for a year or more.’

‘Legionary,’ said Cassius, ‘you and every other man in this square are members of this garrison. Now I am too. We are not brigands or mercenaries or auxiliaries. We are professionals and we will do a professional job.’

For the first time, there was silence.

‘Now, once you have been dismissed, I will be deciding on a precise plan of action. Until then, I want each of you to return to your quarters and ensure that your personal kit is up to scratch. If it stinks, wash it. If it’s dirty, make it shine. If it’s blunt, make it sharp enough to cut the balls off an elephant. Muster parade will be held just before sundown. The roll will be called.’

Strabo dismissed the men line by line. As they broke up, Cassius observed a number of differing reactions. Some of the men trudged off with blank expressions, others walked briskly away, apparently glad to have something to do. A few remained on the square, exchanging comments with their compatriots, weighing up the new officer still standing stiffly below the legion flag.

Though he knew there was precious little of substance to be happy about, Cassius was relieved. Most of the legionaries had at least shown a willingness to follow orders.

He had made a start.

Not long afterwards, the new commander of the Alauran garrison sat at the table inside the officers’ quarters. Occupying chairs to his left and right were Strabo and Barates. Simo sat on the low bench opposite him. The Gaul had managed to find some spare papyrus sheets and an old reed pen. Having just made up some ink from a lump of gum and some water, he was now ready to make notes as requested.

Strabo belched loudly.

‘Do you happen to know the date?’ asked Barates suddenly. ‘I have been trying to keep track, but—’

‘Late August,’ answered Cassius. ‘The twenty-fifth, -sixth, perhaps. Simo?’

‘Somewhere around there, sir. I could work it out if you like.’

‘No matter. Doesn’t seem to mean much in these parts in any case.’

Cassius had been bemused to learn that many of the Syrian cities still maintained their own calendars, stubbornly refusing to adopt the Roman system. An officer in Antioch had regaled him with several related tales, the last of which involved leaving one city in March, only to arrive at another in February.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said, keen to get started, ‘my mother always says: “If in doubt, make a list.” And so we shall.’

Ignoring both sets of raised eyebrows, Cassius continued.

‘Our aims are simple and twofold. Firstly, to consolidate the defences of the fort and secondly to turn that rabble next door into something approaching a fighting unit. We need to establish the most urgent tasks and set about them immediately. Barates, you seem to know the place as well as anyone, any thoughts?’

‘Several. Number one – the wall.’

‘Clay brick, yes?’

‘Unfortunately. There are no quarries near here, only clay pits. I believe it’s about twenty years old. Originally there was just a village around the spring and at some point the army decided to enclose it.’

‘But it’s at least in reasonable shape.’

‘For the most part yes, apart from the breach.’

Cassius’ frown deepened as Barates continued.

‘It’s behind the barracks. A few months ago a pair of pack horses were startled by something and bolted. They hauled a cart half the length of the fort and it overturned as they rounded a corner. It made quite a hole and over time the area above has collapsed. Perhaps if I show you?’

‘Later. How big is this breach?’

‘Eight feet across, about the same in height.’

‘Why wasn’t it dealt with?’

‘It happened after all the locals had left. The clay they use here is unusual and, well, I suppose we just never got round to it.’

‘You mean to tell me there’s no one here who can repair a wall?’

‘No one volunteered their help. Needless to say I’ve had other things to attend to.’

‘There’ll be someone,’ interjected Strabo. ‘I’ll ask around.’

‘Do so. Right then, the walls.’

At a nod from Cassius, Simo made his first note.

‘Two – water and food,’ continued Barates. ‘Although this lot have done their best to get through the contents of the granary, I should say at least three-quarters remains. There’s grain, pork, fish, plenty to see us through. Water too – the spring under here must be huge. Even in this season, the well still gives us all we want and what comes up is remarkably pure in taste and colour.’

‘Enough for drinking,’ said Cassius. ‘But we’ll need a good deal more if attacked.’

He had received basic instruction on the art of the siege and knew it was likely the Palmyrans would try to fire the buildings before mounting an assault.